Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
I rub the sore spot on my forehead, grinding my teeth.
A guy? What guy?
The only kind I meet.
Another rude prick expecting the red-carpet treatment and a lifelong discount because his espresso was three degrees too cold.
But it’s my store. I’m effectively the boss and I’m expected to defuse every temper tantrum that comes barreling through the door.
I didn’t say I was good at it. I’m only slightly better at customer relations than I am at math.
My armpits are already sweaty in this heat. Missouri summers always have that merciless phase and we’re in the thick of it.
God, if I have to choose between replacing the archaic computer and functioning air conditioning, I’ll be in real trouble.
I suck in a breath and step away from the glaring monitor, hoping to leave my nervous breakdown behind with the overheated machine.
Maybe by the time I return, the numbers will magically change.
“Lead the way, Emmy,” I say with way more enthusiasm than I feel, fanning a bit of much-needed air up my shirt before following her to the front and the asshat waiting for us.
And what an asshat.
Holy hell, I wasn’t ready for this breed of scary-hot alpha male to be standing at my counter, waiting to tear my face off.
I expected a scowling prick—and let’s be honest, he certainly is one—but he’s a finalist for world’s hottest prick.
Toweringly tall? Check.
Dark-blue eyes flashing with sin? Yes.
Mile-wide shoulders that look like they could hold up the sky? Oh, baby, he’s got them.
He’s the full Prince Charming package, up to and including the intimidating look etched on his face that’s pinched with a thousand demands.
While I take my place behind the register, he glances at his digital watch with the designer gold band and sighs.
Yep, definitely a prick.
But rich as hell, if his designer brand oxford shirt and bright-blue tie are anything to go by. I don’t have it in me today to offend rich paying customers.
So I do the only sane thing a struggling business owner can—I reach down, dive deep, and dredge up a smile from the bottom of my soul.
“Hi there,” I say, my customer service voice bright and bouncy, ready to deflect the avalanche of crap he’s about to dump on me. “Is there a problem with your order?”
“No. I haven’t made one yet,” he clips. He’s not even looking at me. His eyes are turned up, fixed on the overhead menu.
O-kay.
Good thing I’ve been doing this for a while.
One prick, no matter how sharp his cheekbones are or how defined his jaw is—and God, what a jawline—will distract me from making money.
“Sure,” I say cheerfully. “How can I help you then?”
“Can you execute a large custom order for delivery today?” He doesn’t even wait for me to nod before waving a hand at the glass case gleaming with pastries. “I need a sampler of this crap. Tortes, cheesecakes, turnovers, cupcakes, the works. Make it extra sweet.”
This crap?
I’m frozen, stunned and staring as my brain tries not to get ragey and defensive.
This is an order, even if he’s placing it in the rudest way imaginable.
A real oh-shit-this-is-expensive order that will make good money.
My favorite kind of order that only comes up a dozen times a year, if I’m lucky.
I turn my smile all the way up to blinding. “Certainly! Do you have any specific requests for your crap?”
There goes my tongue. It didn’t get the memo to be polite.
He looks at me like I’m a crushed bug under his shoe and swipes a frustrated hand through the air. “All of it. Everything you do here. I don’t care.”
I blink at him, waiting for more, but he stares at the bakery case like it’s personally offending him.
“Okay, yes, we can do that,” I say slowly, looking him up and down.
So, he doesn’t look insane, but maybe he’s unhinged in the usual rich people way. The kind where you walk in and buy out an entire store without even caring what it sells. “I’m sure we can accommodate your needs with a custom package of—”
“Extra sweet,” he snaps. “So rich you’ll choke.”
Oof. I hate the way his eyes flash when he makes me imagine gagging.
“Sure, sure. It’s easy to scrounge up our sweetest creations or add a little extra frosting to the lighter stuff.”
“Whatever, lady. It needs to be perfect. I’m trusting you.” The way he narrows his eyes at me says he trusts me to muck this up beyond recognition.
“Perfect, huh? You’re in luck. We’ve been doing that for over fifty years,” I bite off nicely at his assholery, beaming an even wider chipmunk smile that hurts my cheeks.
He hate-glares at the bakery case, then turns his dubious eyes back on me like swords.
Oh, boy.
My hair’s probably a worn red ball in this humidity plus the back office turning into a sauna.
But why does he look so skeptical?